


Pull the Thread, or Jack O'Neill's 9-Step System to forget you're in love with Sam Carter

by thispieceofwork



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Complete, Episode: s08e18 Threads, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispieceofwork/pseuds/thispieceofwork
Summary: "Just let me say this. I have to say this. For me."One of these times, Jack thinks, she's gonna come over and I won't be mid-something. Last time, he was grilling. This time, he's intent on drinking away the day--even if it takes all night.But luck was never his strong suit. Not when it comes to this. To them. To her.Carter in his living room is not part of the usual "brink of annihilation" routine. For Jack, it's become second nature. Step 1, buy too much beer. Step 2, takeout. Step 3, grocery store cake and the soothing Americana of Simpsons perfection.Her visit infringes on Step 4, drown sorrows in creature comforts and just be glad you're alive. And that's dangerous. Because if he's not distracting himself with Step 4, his brain will certainly wander to Step 5, thinking about the forbidden. The locked away. The never-gonna-happen.Namely, her.But it's different this time. She made it different.
Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Carter/Jack O'Neill
Comments: 22
Kudos: 120





	Pull the Thread, or Jack O'Neill's 9-Step System to forget you're in love with Sam Carter

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey. This was the first ship I ever shipped and goddamn did baby me write some awful fanfiction that I LOVED SO MUCH. And now here's some much better quality fic for the ship that started it all. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this after your rewatch binge as much as I did.

* * *

"Just let me say this. I have to say this. For me."

One of these times, Jack thinks, she's gonna come over and I won't be mid-something. Last time, he was grilling. This time, he's intent on drinking away the day--even if it takes all night.

But luck was never his strong suit. Not when it comes to this. To them. To _her_.

Carter in his living room is not part of the usual "brink of annihilation" routine. For Jack, it's become second nature. Step 1, buy too much beer. Step 2, takeout. Step 3, grocery store cake and the soothing Americana of Simpsons perfection. 

Her visit infringes on Step 4, drown sorrows in creature comforts and just be glad you're alive. And that's dangerous. Because if he's not distracting himself with Step 4, his brain will certainly wander to Step 5, thinking about the forbidden. The locked away. The never-gonna-happen. 

Namely, her.

But it's different this time. She made it different. 

As Jack had settled into his well-worn couch that evening, he couldn’t help but play that fateful afternoon over in his head. 

_There's actually a very good reason I'm bothering you with this..._

He didn't pretend not to know what she would have said. Every airman on base knows how they feel about each other by now, much to their mutual chagrin. He was more surprised that she was finally going to say...well _anything_ , really.

What happened to the room? Didn't she want to keep it in that room? He had a distinct memory of a choice so quick it morphed into mandate, her desperate attempt to control the situation. Because she wanted it contained. Quantified. Shoved away and safe.

And he could do that. Because it's what she wanted.

It was for the best, really. He knew all the reasons. Step 6 is list all the reasons they can never happen--and after an apocalypse or eight, Jack knows them by heart. 

_Too old for her. The regs. Her career. Deserves better._

And then, Pete. 

Step 7 is to hate Pete in private so he can play Supportive CO when she needs him. But there's a fine line between knowing she’s better off without him and having to watch his replacement. 

The line turned into distance, into distraction, into Kerry Johnson, a mistake he couldn't help himself from making. Kerry was something to take the edge off. To prove it wasn't killing him. To follow through on letting her go.

But there's never been any letting her go. Not really. Letting go of Carter is to let go of everything that makes life worth living. He's learned this too many times in too many ways, as has she. 

It has a wearing effect. It takes a toll they handle differently. 

She barely slept for three months to bring him back to Earth. It took three Carter-less days for the numbness to change him, to revert him to the useless shell who just wanted it all to stop hurting, the Jack who’s just looking for a useful way to die. 

He's not proud of that, but she's always been the better person, the stronger person. Jack knows this. Which is why she's never said a word, never given in--no matter how many fishing trips he invented to tempt her into it.

Until, apparently, now. This evening. Foreign keys jangle at his door, setting off initial alarms in his head--alarms which quickly shift to a different kind of dangerous as he recognizes the woman at his door. She’d let herself in with his spare, mumbling excuses about seeing the TV on and no cars in the drive. 

It’s a bolder move than he expected, though he isn’t surprised either. He knows her too well for that. Sam could never stand a question she can’t answer.

She marches into the room, military efficiency in a casual skirt, and stands in front of his couch to say...nothing.

His brown eyes lock with hers as he mutes the TV. And he waits. 

"Carter?"

Her eyes slip closed at the name he's chosen to call her. They reopen with purpose, blazing blue. She's overcoming the fear. She's finding her footing again. She scouts the area, looking-not-looking for visitors.

"Is anyone here?"

"No."

"The guys aren't just outside with donuts?"

"I could check."

Jack moves to stand, to make good on his offer, but she motions for him to stay seated, shifting her weight from toes to heels. The silence stretches between them. He offers, "Beer?"

"No." She takes a deep breath. A steadying breath. And she levels her gaze on him, adding weight to her words. 

She says, "I need to tell you something. Something personal. And I need you to not be my CO about it."

See, this is all in direct violation of Steps 5, 6, _and_ 7, Jack tells himself. She's got this look in her eyes too much like epiphany, like she's figured out some alien doohickey in the nick of time. That look regularly turns his knees to jelly, one of the myriad looks that make up the ache of not being with her.

With that look directed his way, the night is fast approaching Step 8, fantasize about how it could all be different--but that’s a pity party he throws in the privacy of his bedroom, _thankyouverymuch_. Her being here, saying this...it's too much when he knows they're headed for Step 9, the sucker-punch reality check. 

Step 9 is to practice calling her Samantha Shanahan. If she decides to change her name, he doesn't want to flinch. He wants it to sound so damn natural, so perfectly normal, that no one can tell how it's killing him.

So in an act of self-preservation, he tries one last time to give them an out--a small honesty to keep the bigger ones at bay. "I told you on that ship, Carter. I know. You don't have to explain anything to me." There's a sadness in his chocolate eyes she can't quite name when he says, "I get it."

He watches her consider it. It's familiar, taking the out. They're good at it. _Too_ good at it. She nervously twirls her keys, and it's only now that he notes the absence of any jewelry. And while she rarely wears her ring around him, a small part of him dares to hope.

She shakes her head. "Just let me say this. I have to say this. For me."

He remains silent, frozen on the couch.

She sounds almost embarrassed, but pushes through. "I know you know. And I know all the reasons why we should leave it there. But I don't know how many more close calls we're gonna get, and I'm tired of being too afraid to tell you."

And in that moment, it becomes real. She’s going to say it. _Really_ say it. Out loud. And there’s a lump he can’t swallow in a throat gone dry--he almost can’t stand to hear it. 

“Don’t,” he whispers, deep and low. 

“Please let me finish--”

“Don’t, Sam.”

Red-eyed rejection rises within her. She demands, “ _Why_?”

“Because if you say it, I’m gonna do something about it. Something neither of us are supposed to. For a whole lot of reasons.”

It doesn’t matter that he’s sitting down. It doesn’t matter that the whole room is between them. In that moment, the magnetic pull of his pain-filled eyes have her pinned to the ground where she stands. She can almost feel the weight of his focus, the effort it takes to keep his breathing steady. She notes the quiver in his gaze and the desperate way he fights to keep his eyes trained on hers, determined not to dip lower, not to break the rules, not to think of her _that way._

It’s this that banishes the last of her fears. Even here, when she’s let herself into his house after yet another round fighting off world-ending stakes, he’s determined to make this her choice. He needs to hear her say this--all of it, no matter what it means. 

“I don’t care about ‘supposed to’ anymore. I love you, Jack. I have for years.”

She pauses for a moment, notes the hard swallow in his throat, his tightened grip, and pushes on before he can stop her. “And I know what you're doing with Kerry, because I'm doing the same thing with Pete. We're both trying to get some part of what we want without having to give up the rest of it. To have some kind of normal in our lives.

"But I don't want normal. The house and the dog and the picket fence mean nothing if you're there with the wrong person. I don't want that kind of normal,” she looks down and away, but forces herself to finish the sentence, “...not unless it's with you."

Jack's grip on the condensation-slick bottle falters. It falls to the ground, spilling the last third into the carpet, and he doesn't even watch it fall. 

Because the intensity of his chocolate eyes have been fixed on her face since she started. Because she can't _really_ be saying what he thinks she's saying. After all this time, it can't really be this easy. 

Can it?

She looks at him, face flush, her open-book heart shining through those baby blues. His voice is hoarse and heavy, and though seated, he is tight with tension--a coiled spring, caught between action and good judgment. 

Clarity. He needs clarity. 

"Sam...spell this out for me. What are you saying?"

He calls her Sam, and a traitorous tear streaks her face. She squares her shoulders and takes a stuttered breath, lips pressed together in _don’t-leave-me-alone_ honesty. "I called off the wedding. Pete's gone. And I can't keep using the regs as an excuse anymore. I have to _know--_ "

Pete's gone.

_Pete's gone._

Those two words start a chain reaction that Jack's not sure he can control. One moment he was sitting, many respectable feet from her heartfelt confession, and the next he's pushing off the couch, he's crossing their no man's land of professional distance and somehow, she's in his arms--in his _arms_ \--his thumb brushing tears from her impossibly soft cheek. 

Her bit-back moan of surprise is nearly his undoing. He rests his forehead against hers and breathes deep. But he has to know, has to know for certain that she knows what this means for them both.

"Sam...you're sure?"

Her nod is near frantic. "I'm sure. You? I mean, are you--"

"She dumped me. For being in love with you. Told me to retire, actually."

His casual admission rocks her back on her heels. He steadies her with a hand, curling fingers in the small of her back. He watches his words register, watches the knowledge unfurl in her disbelieving smile. She is equal parts amazed, relieved, terrified--and something else he was never supposed to notice.

It's that something else that drops her eyes to his lips, tilts her chin up as she leans her body into his. She combs a tentative hand through the short hair at his neck, looking at him like he’s something special, like he's all that matters, and it's all _too much_. 

He runs the tip of his nose along hers, angling his head, and swallows hard. "Last chance, Carter."

"Don't need it, Sir." 

She fists her hand in his t-shirt collar and pulls his lips to hers.

Holy. _Hannah._

His last coherent thought is that he hopes she was serious about being sure. Because there is absolutely no going back now. Not when he knows the taste of her mouth, the sound of her sighs, the brush of her tongue that says more than words ever could. 

Jack returns her fervor, opens his mouth to her, her passion igniting his own. Drunk on the sweet taste of permission, he pulls her flush against him, walking their tangled way to an empty space of wall. He buries his hands in short, blonde hair, drinking deep of her, bound and determined to make every second of this insanity count. 

Her back hits the wall and he cradles her head. Every move he makes is to hold, caress, console--and _thank god_ , because she is burning, combusting, on the edge of supernova. How can one kiss be so all-consuming?

Jack leaves her lips to trail down the side of her neck, relishing every impatient moan, every surprised squeak. He may even detect a giggle. He catches her eyes. Her smile is infectious as she pulls him up for another kiss. He groans as instinct rolls her hips against him. 

"There's no way...you're actually real…" Jack kisses down her collarbone. "I'm gonna wake up...or it's another time loop...or that damn quantum mirror or something…"

He finds a particularly sensitive part of her neck with his teeth, laves it with his tongue when she sighs. Tears spark as Sam half-laughs along with him, encouraging him to kiss lower, lower, to parts of her he's never touched.

"I keep thinking I'm gonna wake up on that ship...that you're just another hallucination…"

His hands skim her chest, open her leather jacket to the sweet tanktop number beneath. He wonders if she did it on purpose. "Can't believe you're here..."

She smooths her hands over his arms, relishing the feel of his strength. "Can't believe you're real…"

"...wanted you too long--"

"...need you too much--"

Jacket. Floor. _Thud_. 

"I love you, Sam. Tried not to. Couldn't help it."

"I know, Jack. Just kiss me. _Please_ just kiss me."

So he does. Thoroughly.

She guides his hand to the hem of her skirt, twines their fingers as together they push the fabric up over knee, up her thigh, high enough to hitch a leg over his hip. He holds her close, ever her solid support. Jack leans into her heat, his arousal flush against her and _god_ , she thinks, it is so _not fair._ How can such teasing touches feel _this good_ fully clothed?

Grasping hands untuck their shirts, hungry for skin. Electric shivers skim the expanse of her stomach, a direct result of his eager fingers exploring yet unseen parts of her--parts that are quite high on his to-do list, at present.

The clothing falls fast. His tee. Her tank. Sweatpants and skirt. In between kisses and caresses, they manage to unhook her bra. The first embrace of skin-on-skin leaves them both breathless. Their moan is a duet, and she arches into him, never leaving their kiss. Her pebbled nipples press against his chest. His hand skates the side of her breast and it's entirely possible she may _go insane_.

Jack drops to kneeling faster than he has in any firefight, ignoring the twinge in his knees that even the sarcophagus couldn't work out. If anything was ever worth the pain, it's watching a half naked, fully flustered Samantha Carter writhe up the wall as he takes her rosy bud into his mouth.

The sound she makes is primal. Hungry. Needy. And music to his waiting ears. In eight years and countless compromising situations, Jack is fairly certain he's never heard her _whine_ before. It would be an ego boost if it wasn't so painfully, _painfully_ arousing. 

"Jesus, Carter…" he whispers against her breast. He sucks her to a hardened peak, lets her go with a pop and teases the sensitive skin, grazing with teeth. He levies attention to her other breast and cups her firmly, reveling in the weight of her in his hand. 

Her eyes flutter closed as she bites her lip, hand grasping at his back for purchase, for stability. She admits to herself she far prefers "Carter" when it's tinged with such obvious desperation. She likes knowing just how badly he needs this too. It makes her state of total frustration marginally less embarrassing. 

"Want you," she tells him, pulling him back up her body. His mouth finds the shell of her ear the same moment she cups between his legs. It's the barest brush, yet Jack is dizzy from the sheer force of blood rushing south to greet her teasing. He kisses her slow, an achingly sweet meeting of mouths, and they part to catch their breath. 

"You're absolutely sure?" Jack asks, nosing her cheek, strong arms holding her close.

He feels her nod against him. His heart soars as she says, "This now. Talk later."

Reducing a mind as brilliant as Carter’s to near-monosyllabic speech is a feat of which he is entirely too proud. She catches the edge of his boyish smirk as she locks her legs around his hips. 

He chuckles, "That, I can do."

"You better," she chides. 

And it's right around then--when she levers them off the wall, holding tight as he half-trips, half-carries her to the bedroom--that Jack O'Neill realizes he might be the luckiest sonofabitch there ever was.

* * *

Half-naked Carter up a wall is great, Jack thinks as they stumble into his room. But half-naked Carter sprawled across his bed is enough to have any man _crawling over broken glass_ to get to her. Her blue eyes are bright as he kneels between her legs, beckoning to him in a way he could never answer before. 

But now? All bets are off.

Sam snakes her arms around to pull him close, craving the weight of his body over hers. Her hiss of approval is now vying for the title of Favorite Carter Sex Noise, currently tied with her particular brand of breathy moan. He closes his eyes to savor the moment--he forgot what it was like to be needed like this, to need someone else so completely. 

She threads her legs over and between his, trying to roll them over. And as much as he likes the idea of giving Sam control, he’s not ready to finish this just yet. Not by a long shot. 

He catches her hands at his hips and moves them above her head, pinning her wrists with one hand as he kisses down her body. What begins as a straight line becomes something much more as Jack begins to really see what he’s looking at. 

Sam’s body has kept a score not dissimilar to his own. Hell, some of these scars are his handiwork. It suddenly seems the least he can do to kiss and make them better. 

After a time, she notices. Jack hears the hitch of recognition in her breathing, feels it in reverberate in his own chest. He looks up and sees his pain reflected in her eyes.

People make jokes at the SGC about their lingering stares. But they don’t know what it’s been like to be caught in this particular catch-22. 

Sam’s the only one who’s ever understood how this has felt. She's the only one who ever could. 

They’ve kept sentry over that proverbial room--just the two of them, pulling too long of shifts, pushing too hard, trying to save the whole damn galaxy just for a chance to be together. Because it had to be better to die trying, right? What else could they do?

The others empathize because they’ve watched them struggle from the outside. But it's Sam who really knows what it’s like to have to kill, abandon, and forsake the one you love with such damnable frequency.

When he comes to raised welts he recognizes as gunshot wounds, his breathing stutters, reminded of different shots he had to fire her way. He takes extra time kissing over these scars and remembering that particular close call, though his zat left no such marks on her body. 

Even knowing Sam wasn’t “home” at the time, the memory trips him with unexpected grief. She runs a hand through his hair, a physical check-in he can sense without her saying a word.

Jack can't look at her when he admits this, but he mutters in a broken voice, “I had to kill you, Carter. No one said I’d have to kill you.”

At a loss for comfort, she acknowledges his pain. “I know, Jack.”

“Not be with you? Fine. If it’s what you wanted, I could handle that. But no one said anything about pulling the trigger myself.”

At his confession, hot tears rise in her throat. She does her best to abate them and pulls him up her body for a kiss as fierce as they are, knowing he’ll understand her actions-over-words approach. His hand cradles her head as he meets her lips--unhurried, insistent. She whispers between kisses, “I’m here...I’m not going anywhere...I’m yours.”

Not one to miss a moment for self-deprecation, Jack responds, “You have terrible taste in men. But this time, I’m not complaining.”

His quip has the desired effect, and Sam cracks a smile so radiant it could outshine most suns. He trails a hand down her stomach, then lower still to the final triangle of cloth at the apex of her thighs. He runs the pads of two fingers along the seam at her center--and finds her completely and totally soaked. 

“Sam... _hot_ ,” is all he can manage, but she catches his meaning and is glad he seems pleased. She was too busy being mortified by her obviously-ready anatomy to guess at his reaction. 

He nudges the fabric aside and teases two fingers around her entrance. Their eyes lock as he slides slowly inside. She closes on him like a vice, her silky strength pulsing around him. 

Sam's hips arch to meet him, pulling a strangled moan from deep within as he finally fills her, _finally_ gives some relief. She bites hard on her bottom lip when he swipes his thumb across her center, spreading her wetness over heightened skin. "Yesss…" she cries out, finding a rhythm with his arm as he stokes a fire deep inside her.

_Jesus_ , but he could watch her like this all day. The realization of that new possibility throws fuel on the bonfire that is bringing her pleasure. And yet he keeps the tempo slow, intent on relishing every single perfect second of her arched back on his sheets, of being encased in her heat.

She's on the brink of begging and Jack begins to wonder when she'll finally crack, finally ask for what he knows she needs so desperately. When she holds to silence, he takes advantage of her fluttering eyes to settle between her legs, to relieve the curiosity of too many sleepless nights and learn the fullness of how she tastes. At the touch of his tongue, she all but seizes against him.

Sam expects him to quickly return to her arms, to realize her state and move on. "You don't...have to...I'm ready now…"

Jack tries to ignore how this admission stirs his own arousal, pressing his hips into the mattress for brief relief. " _Have_ to? There's no _have to_ , Carter. I _want_ to."

It's not that other men--few and far between though they were--never offered, never made such claims. It's not as though she didn't enjoy it. It just always felt too...personal. Too intimate. To have all the focus on her felt too much like pressure, like a performance, a test she didn’t study for.

Until now.

Jack swipes his tongue across her center and she nearly comes right there. Because with the way he groans at the taste of her, how he loops his arms around her thighs, the desperation of his fingers clutching her skin--she might believe this is for him after all.

The clever part of her wants to be smart about the benefits of having such a mouthy CO, but she's afraid to ruin this moment with rank. Later, when they've talked it through, she might indulge in a whispered "Sir". But right now, the man between her legs is someone she’s barely begun to meet.

Not just the colonel, the general, her commanding officer. Right now, he’s Jack. Her lover, Jack.

_Hers._

And it’s clear that Jack knows his business.

"Just relax. I've got you," he whispers, and drops a kiss to her hip. He then begins a wandering journey over and down her inner thigh, the inside of her knee, kissing and licking his way back to center. He slips her underwear down her legs, finally baring her to his gaze. His mouth waters as he closes around her clit. Sam bucks hard against him, thankful for the way his arms keep her pinned and steady. 

" _Jack…_ " she keens, and _god_ , but there's nothing hotter than how she looks, how she sounds right now, balancing on the precipice, trying not to fall.

"It's okay," he croons against her. "It's all okay. Come for me, Sam. I want you to."

Her hand surges through his hair, holding him close as he sucks her into his mouth, teasing with tongue and teeth. He pushes two fingers inside her again, reaching for the place that makes her toes curl, the place that makes her legs shiver and shake. 

Sam is shimmying beneath his mouth, shamelessly grinding against him when she finally falls over the peak, sensation crashing inside her. Her body curls in and around him instinctively, in spasm, pulls his fingers yet deeper inside her heat, but he doesn't stop, determined to make this last as long as possible for her.

"God, Sam. You're so beautiful. So beautiful..."

He eases her down from the cresting waves of release, levering long licks against her in the guise of cleaning, while in truth, stoking the aftershock shudders to see when she's ready again.

Some semblance of sanity returns and she breathes a laugh--part bashful, part content. She can't remember the last time it felt like _that_. Sam presses her arms into the bed to prop herself up, just enough to catch the entirely-too-sexy picture of Jack, happily nestled between her legs, kissing up the evidence of his good work.

And she can't ignore how badly she wants this anymore. Ready doesn’t _begin_ to cover it. 

When he makes his way back up her body, she welcomes his kiss, amazed how her own taste mixes so perfectly with all that is Jack. This time, when she pushes to roll them over, he lets her, more than happy to be on his back, looking up at a thoroughly naked Sam. 

_His_ Sam.

The thought revives that damn lump in his throat. He strokes her face, brushing blonde strays away from her forehead through a subtle sweat. She catches his hand on her cheek, kisses his palm, then grinds her nakedness against his erection, giving him something else to choke on entirely.

"Careful, Sam…"

Her smile is wicked. "Why?"

"You know why."

She laughs once, deep in her throat, and slips away, faster than he can react. Before he knows it, his boxers are down his legs and she’s kneeling beside him. He’s not sure what exactly is running through her mind, but the gleam in her eyes is downright evil. 

“Sam, I’m not kidding-- _fuck,_ Carter!”

She knows this isn’t the time for a long, lingering tease. To be honest, she’s losing patience with herself. But she can’t help but want a taste, for just a moment. She has to know what he looks like, head thrown back as she takes his length in her mouth--she just _has_ to.

He’s hot and heavy on her tongue as she takes him all, all the way down her throat. And anything is worth the way his eyes roll back with the sheer force of sensation, knowing that, in this, he is _hers_ to control. She swallows and sucks him, runs her tongue around his swollen head, entirely too delighted by his surprise.

And if this just so happens to be an especial talent she’s showing off? Well, who doesn’t have their pride?

_“_ Carter... _now..._ ” he whines--and yes, that’s all it can be called, a whine. Thoroughly pleased with herself, she wastes no time in straddling his hips. He reaches into the bedside drawer and tosses her the necessary foil packet. She fits the condom in place and brings the tip of his throbbing cock to her entrance. Together, they ease her down, sliding in aching slowness until he is fully seated within her. 

Her hands find his on the mattress. Fingers lace. Eyes meet. Hips roll. And she shudders, accommodating his size, thankful that he seems to be equally at a loss for words. 

“Fuck. _Yes..._ ” she whimpers, and it’s the first foul-mouthed thing he’s ever heard her say and _god_ like she could _get any hotter._ He wants to respond--was sure he meant to--but the way she’s clenching around his erection is driving all intelligent thought from his mind, replacing it with simple words like _want_ , _need_ , and _Carter_. 

Words cannot always describe what we feel. They’ve learned this from the forcefield, the Za’tarc memories, through too many suicide missions and alternate timelines--and now again, together, here. 

Jack far prefers this version of the lesson.

Sam rolls atop him, squeezes him with her thighs. Jack grasps her waist with frenzied fingers. They move together as rhythmic waves, content to start slow, to carve like water, to etch themselves forever in each other’s flesh. He reaches a hand to where they are joined and circles her clit in time with their thrusts. She folds over in a groan, her chest covering his, her breasts grazing him on every stroke. 

There’s enough light from the hall to catch the twinkle of a tear as it falls from her eye to his shoulder. He kisses her deeply, thrusting his tongue in her mouth as he thrusts below, reaching for every moan, every shiver and quake.

He will hold on until he brings her with him--if it’s the last thing he does.

Tangling his hand in the back of her hair, Jack grips her neck and flips their positions, never leaving her heat, driving Sam onto her back. Her legs lock around his waist. She sighs in appreciation of their quickening pace as he takes back control--or rather, as he fights not to lose it.

She feels the frenzy building and relishes it, her moans coaxing him, punctuating the staccato sharpness of his body inside her. Her hands reach around his back, grab his ass, pull him yet closer, deeper, as he continues to pick up speed. 

“Harder... _please_ Jack…”

_Forcryin’outloud._ She is not playing _fair._ What was that about control? How did he think he could maintain any semblance of it when she’s pleading for all he desperately wants to give? He pulls almost all the way out of her, angling just so to brush her clit with his thumb as he pounds back into her, over and over, unable to hold on, hold out, to wait a moment longer to follow her over the edge. 

“Sam?” Is all the question he can muster. And it’s the way he says her name, like it’s the last syllable keeping him sane, that triggers her second release, that rocks her into him as she cries out, nails digging into whatever flesh she can grasp. She spasms around his cock and he comes with a groan inside her, head buried in the soft curve of her neck. Sam holds him there as they shiver together, a moment a lifetime in the making. She's unwilling to separate, unwilling to let go of the feeling of connection to this man--this incredible, baffling, often-infuriating man who has so kindly fucked her senseless.

He rolls to the side, leaving her warmth, relishing her subtle groan and shift at the loss of his size within her. She stretches and curls into his side, head on his chest, and he holds her close, only semi-conscious of his own gasps for air.

A breathy chuckle escapes her, paints a languid smile on her face. “That was…”

The smile in his voice is evident. “Yeah. I mean, I figured when we finally--”

“So did I. But _that_ \--”

“Yeah. _That_ was something.”

They laugh quietly together, breathing in tandem, coming down from the high and into sated comfort. After a moment, he says, “For the record, before you leave, we’re doing that again. At _least_ once.”

Her grin is wide. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

He kisses the top of her head and shifts her to the side, pulling up forgotten blankets as he playfully swats her backside. “See? Keep talking like that. You’ve got management potential.”

She’s grateful for how he jokes about it, still gleeful enough in the newness to appreciate the strange familiarity settling over them. At once, they are comfortable, joking as they always would, giving tit for tat. And also, they are dancing around the “later” of her earlier, albeit frenzied, request. 

But as they knew it always would, later had arrived. 

* * *

Lt. Colonel Samantha Carter lies on her back in her CO’s bed and listens to him rummage in the connected bathroom, no doubt handling the evidence of their “misdeed”. Ever the perfect soldier, she waits for the guilt, the discomfort, the expected shame. She finds surprisingly little. In its place, all she hears is her father’s advice and that damn hallucination--the beginning of the end of her steely resolve. 

_Don’t let rules stand in your way..._

_Sam, I’m a safe bet..._

_You can still have everything you want._

_I will always be there for you, no matter what. Believe me._

“So when do you think is the _best_ time to tell the President I’m sleeping with my 2IC? Do I schedule a lunch? Coffee, maybe? That big red phone just seems so impersonal.”

His timing ever perfect, Jack breaks her train of thought and reenters the room wearing his recovered sweatpants, her tank draped over his shoulder. He’s holding two glasses of water and takes extra time sitting down, an obvious reference of his advanced age. 

Sam rolls her eyes and sits up. She shrugs the tank over her shoulders. His eyes follow her every move. “You don’t have to put those away on my account. I don’t mind.”

The jokes. So helpful. So impossible to be serious with him. So impossible not to fall into it. But as always, she brings them around. Now partially clothed, she accepts the offered water. “So.”

He takes on her seriousness. “Right. The ‘so’ of it all.”

“I meant what I said.”

“I know you did. The only way this was ever going to happen was on your terms."

Silence. Trying to find the words, Jack says, "I never wanted to take your career from you. I know you’re muddying up your bright penny shine with me.”

“I don’t think of it that way. My dad didn’t either.”

“Jacob?”

She considers not telling him, but figures it’s pointless not to. If they’re going to talk about starting a life, it seems important to be able to tell him. She recounts her father’s final advice against her fear of the rules, and even comes clean about his hallucination-doppelganger aboard the Prometheus. The latter earns her a dazzling half-smile, the kind that has always flipped her heart over in her chest.

“I’d _never_ say we were just friends. Should have been a dead giveaway something was up.”

She laughs easily. “I appreciate that, Sir.”

She blushes at the mistake. His eyebrows raise, but not in an altogether displeased fashion. More like he’s covering how much that _might_ have pleased him. And of course, she notices. Eyes bright with revelation, she teases, “Really? You like that?”

He has the grace to look a little abashed, but is obviously still into it. “It’s what you’ve called me for years. Of course I like that.”

Framed that way, she gets it. And her eyes drop to his lips again, contemplating, remembering, longing, reaching--

She stops before they lose themselves again. “No. Gotta figure it out.”

He throws her a sullen look. She amends, “First.”

His grin is wide. “In that case,” he has her flat on her back in no time, abundantly glad she had not yet spared the time to find her underwear, “I retire. Simple as that.”

A little breathless, she manages to giggle as he kisses back up her legs. She didn’t think she’d be ready yet. How could she _already_ be ready? Perhaps it’s knowing that he couldn’t possibly be ready yet, that this was likely to be a session totally focused on her. She thrills at how that doesn’t scare her like it used to. She can relax into this man.

But before he has her entirely distracted, she pulls him up by the chin. “Jack. It’ll take time. I want to do this as right as we can.”

He nods, blows a breath out his mouth as in thought. “Transfers? R&D for you, maybe? Homeworld for me?”

“You’d hate Homeworld.”

“Less than having to pretend with you.”

“We won’t be able to be blatant. Not until we’re sure we can pull this off.”

“It does feel a bit like leaving the kid with the sitter. The kid, in this case, being the galaxy.”

Sam smiles. “Well, maybe we’ve got some help out there after all.”

“Told you. It’s Daniel. Gotta be.”

She sighs and idly toys with his hair. “Maybe. I know I want it to be. I don’t know what I think. This is more his area. I chose numbers for a reason.”

“Just gotta wait and see.”

“I guess.”

Jack presses a kiss to her thigh, trying to direct her attention back to the matter at hand. "So...would we consider a solid Plan A as 'figured out?' Enough to proceed perhaps with... _other things…"_

And as he sets himself to work between her legs, Sam leans back in blissful surprise at how right it feels to let someone else worry about it for a while.

* * *

“That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. You killed me, Carter.”

In a particularly cheeky mood, Sam counters, “Nuh-uh. We waited eight years for this. I better get _at least_ eight years of the fun stuff.”

Jack turns to look at her, a devious glint in his eyes. “Eight years, huh?”

“Minimum.”

He leans in for a kiss. “Better get on that, then.”

“We’d be fools not to.”

“Y’know? I think we were a bit.”

“Probably, yeah.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
